


Death Comes to Me Again, A Girl

by SilverSkiesAtMidnight



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Nile Freeman, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Found Family, Gen, Graphic Description of Injury, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nile Freeman Needs a Hug, POV Nile Freeman, Restraints, Shoulder dislocation, Temporary Character Death, Whump, Whumptober 2020, its the old guard what do you expect, temporary paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight
Summary: Once, in the earliest days, when she was just starting to wrap her head around the ways her life had changed, the waysshehad changed, she’d asked the others what dying felt like for them.To Nile, it’s what she imagines it would feel like to be a steady breeze on a cool autumn day. To be thoughtless, formless, unstopped and undisturbed by whatever it flows across.In the dark, she moves through like air, and all is soft.Beyond the dark, her ribs withdraw from the ripped tissue of her lungs, sharp edges snapping back into place. She’s torn back to life choking on her own blood.Whumptober Day 1: Let’s Hang Out Sometimewaking up restrained/shackled/hanging
Relationships: Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova & Nile Freeman, Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nile Freeman & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Comments: 21
Kudos: 106
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Death Comes to Me Again, A Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Little late, but finally getting my first whumptober piece out there!! Mind the tags, if you’re squeamish about blood/injuries, tread carefully, and feel free to ask in the comments if you want clarification about any content warnings. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

She is in the dark, and all is soft. 

Once, in the earliest days, when she was just starting to wrap her head around the ways her life had changed, the ways _she_ had changed, she’d asked the others what dying felt like for them. 

Joe said it was like floating in a pool of clear, deep water. Like lying just beneath the surface, the air a mere breath away from your lips, when you’ve just dipped beneath the water and your lungs are still calm and full. 

Nicky had smiled a quiet, tight smile, tilting his head the way he does when he’s searching for the right words for what he wants to say. “It’s like being buried beneath the sand, with the sun warming it on top of me. It’s warm and heavy, and dark. It’s not...bad, not exactly. I’m not afraid, not when I’m there. I’m not really anything.” 

Booker had shrugged. “It feels like being dead,” was all he’d said. He hadn’t looked at her. 

Andy had kept running a cloth methodically along the blade of her ax, meticulously cleaning any lingering flecks of blood from the edges where the metal met the hilt. By now it was a familiar ritual for them, Nile sitting beside her and tending to her own weapons. Andy hadn’t looked at her either when she’d answered. “It feels like nothing. Blackness. Just a gap between one period of existence and the next.” 

Something in her tone kept Nile from asking anything else. They went back to their tasks in silence. 

Andy had been the one to speak again. “It’s instinct to try and compare it to being alive,” she had said quietly. “Don’t. It’s not the same, it can never be the same, and trying to make it make sense by pretending it is will only make it more frightening than it has to be.” 

To Nile, it’s what she imagines it would feel like to be a steady breeze on a cool autumn day. To be thoughtless, formless, unstopped and undisturbed by whatever it flows across. 

In the dark, she moves through like air, and all is soft. 

Beyond the dark, her ribs withdraw from the ripped tissue of her lungs, sharp edges snapping back into place. She’s torn back to life choking on her own blood. 

Her hacking coughs dislodge the worst of the clots, her still-mending rib cage screaming at the involuntary spasms. She spits blood onto the concrete beneath her, instinctually cataloguing the situation she’s in. 

Stark white light beams down from a single fluorescent light fixture strung from the beams above her head, casting the edges of the room in dingy shadow. Her hands are bound together at the wrist and tethered to something above her head, leaving her to dangle above the dark-stained concrete, feet several inches off the ground. 

Even with her lungs clear, Nile finds herself gasping for air, slowly suffocating under her own body weight with no way to support herself. She fights the instinctive panic that comes with being unable to draw a full breath. She turns her head as best she can to look around, trying to distract herself from the growing discomfort.

There’s a chair and small table to her left, pushed into a dingy corner. No visible door, which means it’s probably directly behind her, further than she can twist to see in her current predicament. Whoever took her probably did so on purpose, trying to worsen her nerves by taking away her ability to see who comes and goes. 

She can’t hear or see any signs of life. 

Bits and pieces are coming back to her, flashes of being struck in the back of the head, of waking up bound and shoved in the trunk of a moving car, of the crowbar cracking into her skull a second time when she lunged as the trunk opened. Nothing that can conclusively tell her whether or not they know what she is.

Which means she _really_ needs to get loose and back on solid ground, before they either take her somewhere too secure to escape from or they take things far enough that there will be no hiding her healing. 

Or before she dies of suffocation, which will be very inconvenient, she thinks with dark amusement. 

She tips her head back, squinting against the painful glare of the light as she does her best to examine her bindings. The wire must be wrapped a dozen or more times around her wrists, like a twist tie on a bread bag, so tightly there's dark blood caked in streaks down her arms. It’s looped at the top over a large steel hook that hangs from the high ceiling. Her fingers, when she tries to flex them, are numb and useless. She’s not going to be able to wiggle out of the wire itself, not from this position. 

But she might be able to unhook herself, if she can just raise herself enough to slip the wire free of the hook. 

She grasps at the steel with numb and sweaty fingers, gripping as tightly as she can, and tries to pull herself upwards with shaking arms. 

Instantly, she realizes her mistake. 

She’s gotten worse at noticing and categorizing her own injuries since her days as a soldier. These days, it’s more valuable to know how to keep going and ignore whatever injury hasn’t healed yet than it is to notice them in the first place. 

Between that and the pain of her broken ribs and lungs, she hadn’t even noticed the dislocated shoulder until she tried to lift herself up with it. 

She falls limp immediately, choking back a scream. The jarring motion leaves her swinging slightly, sending shockwaves of pain through the newly-irritated joint. Now that her attention is on it, she can feel the uncomfortable prickle of tendons and ligaments trying to heal themselves beneath the throbbing ache. 

With her arms bound the way they are, there’s no way for the limb to pop itself back into the socket, not with her weight working against it like this. She’s not sure what will happen to it like this, whether it will heal badly and need to be torn out of place again in order to fix it, or whether it will simply wait to heal until it’s physically possible. 

Andy would know. Or Joe, or Nicky. Even Booker. God, she wishes they were here, the sudden desire to not be alone so sharp it’s almost its own physical pain. 

She closes her eyes and takes the deepest breath she can. It’s not nearly deep enough. 

She needs to get it the fuck together, _fast_ , or she’s not going to make it out of this place intact.

Okay. Okay. 

Her first plan is out. She can’t lift herself with both arms; even muscling through the pain her shoulder is mechanically incapable of raising her high enough to unhook her hands. She’s too far off the floor to push herself up with her feet, and there’s nothing to brace off of to give herself the leverage she needs...is there? 

She swings her legs backwards as far as she can, jaw tightening against the fresh swell of pain, testing for any wall or piece of furniture she might have missed. There’s nothing but empty space behind her. So okay, no, that won’t work. 

Next idea: is there anyway to get her hands free that she missed? 

She tips her head back again, breath coming in wheezing gasps. Even her limited movement has caused fresh blood to trickle down her arms, dripping onto her face. She ignores it, wriggling her numb and swollen fingers in the hopes that the blood may have made the metal slick enough to work free. 

It’s useless. 

If she had any leverage at all, she could break the bones in her hands enough to rip them free. Fuck, she’d pull until her hands tore off at the wrist if she could. 

But her weight alone isn’t enough. 

She spits a curse from between gritted teeth, kicking out futilely and accomplishing nothing except causing her shoulder to grind sickeningly and costing her some hard-won air.

It doesn’t take her long to fall limp again, breathing fast and shallow through her nose as she glares at her useless joint.

Maybe she could gnaw it off?

...Nah. It would take forever. 

The only other plan she’s got for now is to pray the others are coming soon. 

Or at all. 

She’s really not sure how long it will take them to notice she’s gone. She’d been out alone on a supply run when they caught her, so there was no one to know she was taken. 

How long before they realize she’s been away too long? How long before they suspect something is wrong? And from there, how long will it take them to track her down and come after her?

She knows she has to still be somewhere in the country, probably not that far out of Palermo where they were staying. It’s impossible to keep her unconscious for long with just a knock to the head these days, and she doesn’t think she was drugged. The car ride was probably less than an hour from what she can remember, and she wouldn’t have been out long enough to be loaded into any other vehicle. 

But still... _will_ they come?

She knows, rationally, that they will. That they have to. They can’t afford the risk that one of them falling into the hands of an enemy poses. 

But she is still so new to the team. It’s been barely a year since her first death, since she joined them, barely any time at all in the span of _their_ lives. 

And she’s never been taken before. Never _let_ herself be taken before, she thinks bitterly, frustrated at her own failure, her own weakness. 

She’s supposed to be better than this. 

Maybe they’ll see it the same way. Maybe they’ll see this as just a learning experience, something she needs to figure out on her own, toughen her up for the long life ahead. 

After all, the team can’t afford someone who keeps falling into the hands of an enemy. 

She thrashes again out of sheer frustration, eyes squeezed shut, and wishes fiercely that she had something solid to actually kick. 

_Wait._

Her eyes snap open. She’d dismissed the chair and table as being too far, but they aren’t actually _that_ far from her. If she really stretches…

Shoving aside the pain of shredded ligaments ripping anew, she begins to swing herself gently, using the muscles in her abs and legs to build momentum, back and forth, toes coming a little closer to the leg of the chair each time. 

_Like swinging from the monkey bars in the schoolyard,_ she tells herself, as blood runs down her arms from the wire that saws into her flesh. 

She’s _so close,_ toes nearly brushing the flimsy metal leg. Another inch, _less,_ and she’d have it. 

She gets an idea. It’s not a very pleasant idea. 

She lets the breath flow out of her lungs as smoothly as she can, knowing better by now than to brace for the pain. It’s better to let yourself flow around it. _Like a steady autumn breeze, undisturbed,_ she thinks. She leans her weight forward, letting herself go limp and shifting all of it off her dislocated shoulder and onto her still intact one. When the joint begins to strain, she relaxes even more. 

With a sickening jolt, her other shoulder pops out of its socket as well. 

A strangled, animal cry of pain tears itself from her throat, but she doesn’t pause to even try to catch her breath. As soon as it’s out, she swings forward again, and the tiny bit of extra stretch the mangled joints give her is enough. 

The tip of her foot catches the chair leg, pulling it just enough to topple it towards her. 

The pain is worsening, all her weight now falling squarely on delicate muscle and flesh that was never meant to hold her up without the support of her bones. An image of a drumstick torn from a roast chicken flashes through her mind, white bone under ragged meat.

She’s panting, unable to control the useless gasps of air that doesn’t feel like it reaches her at all. She’s barely in control of her legs as she clumsily kicks the chair into position, feet slipping as she tries to balance on the edge of the seat. 

Outside, she hears voices. Someone shouts. 

She finds her balance, shoving herself upwards with all her might. The wire lifts up, slipping off the end of the hook, and she is free.

Her back strikes the edge of the tipped chair as she tumbles to the ground, unable to catch herself. There’s a crunch and a terrible shocking jolt like she’s been struck with a cattle prod, and she feels her legs go numb as her spine breaks. 

She doesn’t bother to dislodge herself from the awkward position, lower half draped unnaturally across the fallen chair. She hauls her arms, which feel barely connected to her body, up across her chest, and quickly starts working at the wire with her teeth. 

Push comes to shove, it’s thick and sturdy enough to make an effective weapon, and she can hear footsteps quickly coming towards her room across the concrete, echoing like there’s a much bigger room just outside where she is being kept. 

The door slams open just as she gets the end straightened out, ready to jab it into the eye of anyone who gets close enough. She twists herself towards her captor, teeth bared. 

Nicky stands in the doorway, a bloody piece of rebar in his hand and vibrant red splashed across his face and chest. 

He grins at her, and the effect is almost as feral as she feels. 

“I was going to stab you in the face,” she blurts out. She hasn’t decided yet if she wants to burst into laughter or tears. 

He nods, teeth still bared in a manic imitation of a smile, but his eyes are dark as bloodstains as they scan across her twisted and broken body. “Very good. I’d have loved to see you do it.”

He drops the rebar on the ground with a clatter, clearly unconcerned with drawing attention. She’s not sure if that means there’s no one left to draw attention from, or if he’s hoping they _will_ come. He crosses to her swiftly, kneeling down beside her and taking her hands in his. 

“Who - ” she breaks off, voice hoarse and wincing as he begins untwisting the blood-slick wire as gently as he can. Flashes of white bone glint in the gashes left behind. “Who were they?”

There’s a grim, furious tightness around his eyes, but he smiles reassuringly at her as his steady fingers work. “They didn’t know what you are, don’t worry. They’re connected to the extremist group Copley’s been looking into. Mistook you for CIA.” He’s finally able to get the wire off and lift it off her wrists. He takes her hands in his, massaging blood back into them as the marks on her arms begin to slowly stitch themselves shut, looking her in the eye as he does so. “It was a bad mistake on their part.”

She smiles back shakily. She’s leaning towards bursting into tears. 

As if he can tell, he looks away, turning to look back through the open door behind him, giving her the space to collect herself. “There are still more in the building. Andy and Joe are securing the perimeter. Are you able to walk?” 

“Give me a second,” she says. She shifts slightly, unable to feel the grind of broken bones in her spine. She pushes herself up and tries to struggle to her feet, Nicky keeping a gentle hand on her side to steady her. Her spinal cord isn’t fully mended yet, painful pins and needles running up and down her legs, which are heavy and slow to respond. The first of her shoulders pops back into place, making her hiss. “Yeah. I’m not going to be very fast though,” she says, gingerly rolling the tender joint.

“That’s alright. That’s what I’m here for.” He moves to her good side before tucking his shoulder under her arm, taking most of her weight as he helps pull her up to her feet. The other arm follows its twin, and she staggers slightly. Nicky’s hand tightens reassuringly on the healed skin of her forearm.

She lets him keep her from falling, shuffling along as quickly as she’s able, legs growing steadier with every step.

She was right when she guessed there was a larger room she was connected to. It looks to be some sort of warehouse, a little worn down. Possibly deserted before they took it over. 

Bodies are littered throughout, blood splattered across the concrete. Many of them don’t even seem to have been armed. Somewhere outside, she can hear the pop of gunfire. 

Tables and crates fill their path, an assortment of guns and other weapons visible all around them. Clearly, weapon inventory was this place’s main purpose. 

There’s a shriek, and Nicky and Nile both look up in time to see a body tipped over the edge of the catwalk that runs around the perimeter of the upper level of the warehouse. Joe waves down at them as the body splats against the floor. 

“You owe Andy dinner,” he calls down. 

“What, did I lose a bet?” She shouts back, proud of how steady her voice sounds, despite the crashing relief that she knows must be scrawled across her face at the sight of him. She’s still leaning heavily on Nicky, though her legs by now are only lightly tingling, as though she merely fell asleep on them. 

“That’s the rule,” Nicky says in her ear. “You get kidnapped, you owe Andy food. Payment for making her worry.”

She laughs, and it’s sharp and brittle but true. “Fine, but someone else’s gotta go pick it up this time.”

Joe hops over the railing, dropping off the catwalk and landing much more cleanly than the first man did, though he limps on probably fractured knees as he comes towards them. “I wouldn’t worry about that, little sister,” he says lightly, eyes scanning both of them thoroughly for any injury. She can see the slight tension that drains from his frame when he’s satisfied that they’re both okay. He moves slowly but smoothly when he reaches for her, and she can tell he’s taking care not to spook her. His considerateness exasperates her, but mostly, she is just grateful to be able to lean into the touch as he draws her towards him to press their foreheads lightly together. “No one is going to make you be alone,” he breathes, and she squeezes her eyes shut, wrestling the flood of emotion down to face later. He keeps their heads together, fingers cradling the back of her head for several long beats before drawing back, smiling at her as his other hand reaches out habitually to catch Nicky’s. “Let’s go home.”

Nicky squeezes his hand back, but doesn’t follow. He nudges Nile towards Joe when she turns to look at him questioningly. “Go. Get her out of this place. I’ll follow soon, I just need to take care of all of this first.” She frowns, and he shrugs, smirking. “I’m sure there’s something explosive in here.”

Joe’s hesitation is obvious, even though all three of them know Nicky is fully capable of taking care of himself. 

It occurs to Nile that her kidnapping may have shaken him more than he’s letting on.

Nicky glances at him, a soft, understanding smile on his lips. “Don’t worry so much, my love. I’ll be out in less than a minute. Just make sure Nile is safe, okay?” 

“Alright, I’m not a kid,” she huffs, even as she leans slightly into Joe, the knowledge that they’re protecting her like a balm on her scraped-raw soul. 

“Ah, when you are our age, you practically are,” Joe says affectionately. He hesitates only a beat longer, before pulling away from her to kiss Nicky tenderly. “Be quick, my heart,” he tells him, as Nicky pushes them lightly towards the exit.

Together, they make for the door, at a light jog. 

Joe pauses only for a moment before an array of guns ranging from pistols to assault rifles. He plucks an elegant handgun from among the lot and tucks it into his belt, shrugging when she looks at him in exasperation, increasingly anxious to be out of this place. “It is always wise to grab an extra weapon when you have the chance.” 

One aisle after that, and they’re free. 

The doors are busted wide open, a car with a crumpled hood just inside. Past the car, through the hole it’s left behind, out onto the asphalt, and Nile can finally breathe again.

The sunlight is hot and bright, and Nile nearly stumbles against the blinding white of it, so starkly different from the dark of the warehouse. Joe’s grip keeps her moving, tugging her forward as her eyes struggle to adjust. 

Someone shouts in Italian, her brain unable to parse the words despite Nicky’s tutoring, and Joe tenses. A man ducks out from behind one of the rusty pieces of construction equipment that cluster around the warehouse. 

His eyes are wild, hands shaking around the grip of the gun he holds, only barely managing to aim it at them. There’s a splatter of blood on his ashen face that’s not his own. 

Beside her, Joe makes a low sound, something between a growl and a snarl. His hand goes to his belt, but he doesn’t draw the gun he just took from within the warehouse. Instead, he draws a dagger, glinting in the light as he steps towards him and in front of her, completely unswayed by the gun pointed at him, and the man cries out again, voice high-pitched and full of fear. 

And Nile - Nile is so _tired_ of fear. She is so tired of blood and pain and terror that doesn’t cease. No more. Not today. 

She goes for Joe’s belt too, only her hand wraps around the hilt of the gun he just took from inside. She draws it before he can stop her, unprepared as he is for the action. 

She raises the gun, points instinctively.

There’s a sharp crack, and the man falls to the ground, a red hole in the center of his head. 

She blinks, staring blankly at the body. Her finger is not yet on the trigger. 

Andy strides out from behind the nearby truck, her face carefully composed. She comes up to stand in front of them, eyes scanning Nile the same way Joe and Nicky’s had. “Welcome back, Nile,” she says simply. “You owe me food.”

Nile manages a shaky grin, weak but genuine. “What are you in the mood for?” 

Andy shrugs. “I like pizza.” Her eyes flick to Joe. “Nicky?”

“We’re about to be blown up,” Joe says cheerfully. 

She snorts. “This way, then.” 

She leads them briskly to a black car parked near the perimeter, almost definitely obtained through illegal means and with the engine still running. She hops into the driver’s seat as Joe opens the passenger door for Nile.

She’s barely climbed in when Nicky appears, coming towards them at a sprint from across the lot. She quickly pulls the door shut after her as Joe waves him over, holding the back door open for him to jump in before sliding in after him. Andy is peeling out of the lot before the door even closes, and Joe’s hands are tugging him in further, murmuring in swift Arabic. 

Behind them, there’s a blast that rattles the windows of the car, fire and smoke rolling up towards the sky as fragments of debris rain down. Andy turns on the windshield wipers as flecks of debris land on the glass. 

“Survivors?” She asks, glancing at the rearview mirror. 

Nicky shakes his head. “No. I made sure of it.” 

Nile lets out a quiet sound. It might be a laugh, though there’s no real humor in it. “Good.”

Joe lets out a soft, pained sound of his own. There’s a rustling from the back seat, and then Nicky leans forward, pressing an unopened bottle of water into her hand. 

Her hands are trembling slightly as she cracks it open. 

Andy notices. She doesn’t ask if she’s okay, for which Nile is grateful. She takes a sharp left down an alley as the sound of approaching sirens becomes audible. “There’s a jacket on the floor by your feet,” she tells her. “We’ll be driving for a while. You should get some rest. It...it will help.” 

Sure enough, when she reaches down, Nile’s fingers brush the soft worn leather of one of Andy’s jackets. “Thank you,” she says quietly, hoping the other woman can hear how much she means it. 

Andy hums in response, and Nile knows she can. 

She folds the jacket carefully before tucking it under her head, between her and the window. There’s no pain left, only a deep, aching rawness that she suspects will take time to truly fade.

But that’s time she has in excess. 

She closes her eyes, the sound of Nicky and Joe’s murmurs behind her a gentle melody against the soothing hum of the engine, and leather soft against her cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the poem _Death Comes to Me Again, A Girl,_ by Dorianne Laux.
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr, @[sunflowersandink](https://sunflowersandink.tumblr.com/)! I’m going to keep pushing on through these whumptober prompts if it takes me till next autumn :D
> 
> And a BIG thanks to everyone else in the discord. So glad I joined, there’s no way I would have finished this if I hadn’t.


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